GIFT  OF 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


THE 

HUMPBACK, 
THE 

CRIPPLE 
AND  THE 
ONE-EYED  MAN 


•  v 

LIOMC1.    40SAPHARE 


•AN  FRANCISCO 

M.    ROBERTSON 

PUBLISHER 


VOL.  I.  NO.  2 

THE    FLAME    SERIES 

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CONTENTS  JFOltNO.  2. 
BY  Lionel  JosapHare 

The  Cynic  at  the  Feast  page  5 

Renunciation  S 

A  Sweetheart  of  Other  Days  13 
THE  HUMPBACK,  THE  CRIPPLE 

AMD  THE  ONE'EYED  MAW  IS 

The  Sovereign  in  the  Street  23 

Sonnets  of  an  Angel  29 

The  Workingman's  Cod  34 


COPYRIGHTED,        1903 
BY   A.    M.    ROBERTSON 


THE 

HUMPBACK, 
THE 
CRIPPLE 

Poems 
AND   THE  on  the  State 

ONE-EYED  MAN.  Of  Ubor. 

BY 

LIONEL  JOSAPHARE. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

A.  M.  ROBERTSON 

SAN  FRANCISCO 


THE  CHARLES  L.  GASKILL  PRESS 


PREFACE  AND  ANNOUNCEMENT 

The  work  of  Mr.  Christian  Binkley,  an 
nounced  in  the  first  number  of  the  Flame 
Series,  does  not  appear  herein.  Mr.  Binkley 
has  received  some  of  the  highest  praise  ac 
corded  a  California  poet,  and  we  hope  to  pub 
lish  some  of  his  literature  anon. 

From  a  critical  view,  the  poems  in  this  vol 
ume  may  seem  an  attempt  to  exalt,  rather  than 
a  manner  of  receiving  exaltation  from,  the 
subject  matters  thereof.  It  may  be  declared 
that  only  beautiful  objects  are  the  re 
sources  of  poetry.  I  do  not  deny  that  poetry  is 
the  expression  of  the  beautiful,  but  deny  that 
it  is  always  such.  Objects  of  less  heavenliness 
have  also  their  places  in  art.  Poetry  can  con 
template  physical  misery  and  lose  none  of  its 
own  elemental  grandeur,  if  it  is  true  and  in 
trinsically  divine. 

It  may  be  said  that .  benevolence  is  one 
thing  and  beauty  another.  Yet  benevolence 
is  the  beauty  of  the  soul.  There,  are  some  to 
whom  an  oil-painting  of  Christ  in  a  gorgeous 
throne  room,  curing  a  Syrian  prince  of  a 
languid  feeling,  would  contain  more  essential 
beauty  than  would  a  representation  of  Him 
at  the  Mount  of  Olives,  protecting  the  woman 
who  had  sinned.  The  misconception  would 
arise  from  the  fact  that  the  paraphernalia  of 
regal  magnificence  in  itself  would  be  so  ad- 


459868 


vantageous  that  an  artist  of  ordinary  ability 
could  not  fail  making  a  portrayal  of  beauty 
of  it.  But  the  episode  at  the  Mount  of  Olives, 
with  its  native  background,  requires,  for  its 
presentation,  a  limner  of  the  soul.  Anyone 
can  fancy  riches;  but  soul  must  be  shown  to 
us.  Moreover,  the  baser  sentiments  of  envy 
and  greed  are  quickly  aroused  to  the  admira 
tion  of  sumptuous  beauty,  even  though  poorly 
painted,  while  poverty  is  so  repugnant  to 
our  thoughts  that  few  can  keep  their  pride 
in  abeyance  until  their  artistic  discernment 
has  had  the  time  to  examine  the  art  quietly. 
Or,  in  respect  of  the  same  subject  of  sheer 
beauty  demanded  by  some  poets,  one  might 
ask,  Which  are  the  most  beautiful,  the  child 
ren  of  the  poor  or  of  the  wealthy.  Romance 
would  answer  that  the  juvenile  dauphins, 
princes  and  czarowitzes  of  our  own  Four 
Hundred,  with  their  bright  hair,  large  eyes 
and  cracker-fed  complexions,  have  the  true 
and  best  beauty.  But  I  give  judgment  against 
them.  Their  faces  are  the  product  of  their 
environment.  In  them  already  appear  the 
selfishness,  the  petulance,  the  obstinacy,  the 
cruelty  and  all  the  favors  of  wealth.  You  may 
call  this  beautiful.  It  is.  It  is.  But  it  is 
earth  compared  with  the  divinity  of  sadness 
in  the  countenance  of  a  child  of  careless 
beauty.  When  poverty  is  beautiful,  it  is 
supreme. 

L.  J. 


THE  CYNIC  AT  THE  FEAST 

The  parlors  glowed.    Their  frescoed  heavens 

fed 

On  music's  cry  and  flowers'  breath  that  spread 
Round  scenic  women,  who  through  all  did 

shine 

That  all  the  triumph  seemed  of  woman  shed; 
Which    Junos    vouched    what    happiness 

was  mine; 
Spoke  from  their  hearts,  which  languidly  they 

fanned ; 
And  pressed  good  wishes  on  my  happy  hand. 

Well-manned,  well-darned  was  Pleasure's  easy 
crew. 

To  them  the  sphinx  of  wine  loquacious  grew. 
Life's    meaning    in    the    amorous    goblet 
showed, 

Like    Jove's    with    Cupid's    face    reflecting 

through. 

While  from  the  high-held  glass  base  pas 
sion  flowed 

As  midnight  in  the  mirrors  twice  did  shine 

On  them  who  drank  of  the  carnivorous  wine. 


The  secret  in  the  bottle  was  revealed 
To  all,  and  none  the  mystery  concealed; 

Till,  from  the  mouth  of  each  lascivious 

varlet, 

To  space  the  tongues  and  lips  of  wine  ap 
pealed. 
Folly  mocked  folly;  crimson  blushed  at 

scarlet ; 

Youth  preached  its  broad  experience ;  and  Age 
Its  longer  wisdom  led  upon  the  stage. 

Sweet  and  lascivious,  drunken  and  divine, 
Some  new  mythology  these  gods  design, 

Whose  vice  their  heirs  will  emulate  in  art 
When  future  pagans  light  the  bloody  shrine. 

With  such  affections  taken  to  her  heart, 
Her   smooth    complexion   jeweled    o'er   with 

smiles, 
The  flashing  wife  her  spirit's  life  beguiles. 


The  men!     How  airily  their  deeds  encroach! 

On    what    a    precious-hedged    preserve    they 

poach ! 

To  what  rare  task  is  all  their  wit  ad 
dressed? 

Ah !    Some  with  gay  flirtation  would  approach 
A  mother  nursing  her  wee  babe  at  breast. 

Who  would  not  groan?     A  thornless  rose  of 
joy 

Ne'er  made  a  cynic  of  the  gardener's  boy. 

If  it  be  sin  to  throw  a  loaf  away, 
What  greater  crime  to  feed  them  who  can  pay ! 
Why  give  the  feast  to  them  who  do  not 

need, 

When  thousands  for  the  want  of  it  decay? 
Why    take    from    modesty    and    give    to 

greed  ? 

Why  to  rich  bellies  boast  what  foods  inflate? 
Good  men  are  starving;  let  the  full  ones  wait. 


RENUNCIATION 

Defrayed  in  hope  and  in  my  soul's  respect, 
And  heart-mad,  I  forsook  the  world's  defect; 
Absconded  from  this  pushing  world's  de 
sires, 
And  lit  the  ghost  within  me  to  reflect ; 

Whereby  to  swage  the  burn  of  wicked 

fires, 

Which  flare  so  wide  along  our  mortal  ways 
That  even  virtue  feels  the  general  blaze. 

I  studied  thus :  The  world  has  done  me  wrong 
By  making  virtue  weak  and  evil  strong. 

With  ancient  foulness  it  besets  my  youth ; 
With  tainted  breath  it  sings  the  sweetest  song. 

Moss  grows  upon  the  shady  side  of  truth, 
And  the  same  slanderous  vapors  trickle  down 
Walls  of  ill  fame  or  homes  of  sweet  renown. 


What  opportunity  has  virtue  here? 
Its  duty,  toil ;  its  recompense,  a  tear ; 

Its  innocence  the  object  of  attack, 
A  scene  where  strategy  can  reappear. 

What    splendors     can    illumine    wicked 

black? 

Rather  will  darkness,  hardly  put  to  rout, 
Besiege  the  lamp  until  its  oils  give  out. 

If  still  in  pleasure  I  could  live  alone, 

The  woes  of  others  were  not  worth  a  groan. 

But  who  will  dare  to  lock  his  doors  to  duty 
And  revel  in  perfection  all  his  own? 

And  yet  the  sotted  crowd  will  smirch  his 

beauty, 

His  deeds  refute  and  cumber  him  with  hate, 
Predict  his  fall  and  wide  the  tale  relate. 


Lo,  night-browed  Melancholy,  fierce  Despair, 
Far-limping  ills,  Repentance  and  dull  Care, 

And    Hope    with    sagging    wounds,    and 

Grief  serene, 
And  Poverty  with  dust  upon  its  hair, 

Make  dingy  figures  in  a  wicked  scene. 
But  Wealth,  corrupt  physician  of  their  pain, 
Neglects  relief,  howe'er  the  lips  complain. 

My  brow  is  heavy  at  the  bleeding  sight; 
But  these,  my  friends,  now  scorning  to  requite 

The  long  arraignment  of  truth-telling  day, 
With  pleasure  and  with  perfume  fill  the  night. 

Sick  with  my  conscience,  while  my  friends 

are  gay, 

I  wonder  if  there  will  be  God's  forgiving 
For  those  who  now  commit  the  sin  of  living. 


10 


Ashamed  of  all,  I  leave  their  ways  unkind, 
To  live  in  the  condemned  cells  of  my  mind. 

There  in  what  glory  may  I  fall  asleep, 
Or  else  what  massy  locks  and  queer  keys  find ! 

What  passages  and  subterfuges  deep, 
What  sliding  panels,  clap-traps  in  the  floors, 
What  stairways,  private  streets  and  dreamy 
doors  1 

In  what  suspense  of  tumult  shall  I  dwell, 
Or  storms  that  rock  the  columns  of  mid-hell? 

Ghosts  I  shall  meet,  and  question  them 

who  wrote 
Of  sorrow,  in  what  griefs  their  own  they  fell. 

And  I  may  find,  within  those  halls  remote, 
What  windows  that  on  secret  landscapes  look, 
Or  what  dark  midnights  for  a  lamp  and  book? 


ii 


Perhaps,  along  those  haunted  prison-stones, 
Some  human  visitor  may  clank  his  bones; 

At  whose  intruding  footstep,  I  my  head 
Shall  raise,  inviting  him  to  share  my  groans, 

And  make  the  villain  feed  as  I  have  fed, 
Although  he  make  a  wry  face  at  my  fare, 
The  bread  of  wisdom,  waters  of  despair. 


A  SWEETHEART  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

The    shantied    street   was    crooked    where    I 

walked 

With  insignificance  at  eve.     The  houses, 
Corrupt,  or  damaged  of  proportion,  seemed 
Built  of  some  weird  solidity  of  shadow, 
Or  haply  bronze,  but  very  druxy  bronze, 
Which,  pretty  for  a  picture  of  a  story, 
Looked  quite  unreal  or  the  fanciful 
And  stark  romance  of  realism,  as  if 
Some  pessimistic  architect  planned  them 
As  purgatorial  homes  for  sinners  auld 
Awaiting  the  divinity  of  death. 
Yet  here  the  heart  of  man  feels  the  same  beat 
Of  Nature's  incorruptible  jurisprudence 
As  elsewhere  feels  it ;  and  Fate  works  here  too. 
Sweetheart  of  other  days,  we  meet  again. 
I  wist  I  had  farewelled  our  love  away; 
I  did  not  think  to  act  this  part  again ; — 
That  I  should  stalk  before  an  audience 
Of  shadowy  sick-featured,  sallow  Fates 
And  let  a  gallery  of  evil  spirits 
Clap  me  again  upon  a  pelted  stage! 
Is  Hell  the  repetition  of  a  grief 
That  has  already  saturated  years 
With  undiminished  sighs?    I  grieve  again. 


And  yet,  like  one  who  opes  a  truthful  book, 
To  find  again  some  poetry  forgot, 
I  read  again  the  beauty  of  your  face 
And  feel  the  rushing  sympathy  of  yore, 
That  still  contents.    A  moment's  peace  be  with 

me! 
The  noon  and  Sabbath  of  my  soul  is  now. 


THE  HUMPBACK,  THE  CRIPPLE  AND 
THE  ONE-EYED  MAN 

One  eve,  as  at  my  window-panes  I  stood, 
Gray  films  of  memory  patched  the  dull  gray 

view, 
Where  thoughts,  blithe- winged,  meandered  as 

they  would, 

Like  odd-eyed  fairies  that  from  childhood  flew. 
When  mind's  deep  glass  on  childhood's  ground 

reflects, 

Where  is  the  childish  tenant  of  that  place? 
Dead  in  his  older  self,  now  recollects 
The  inscrutiable  sorrow  on  that  infant's  face. 
Yond  sets  the  sun,  that  has  not  lost  a  day 
In  tacking  through  the  sky  his  blazing  hull. 
But  where's  the  light  that  sunned  that  child  at 

play? 
E'en  memory's  picture-light  of  it  is  dull. 

Thus  oft,  while  legendary  youth  adjusting 
To  present  movings  in  the  glare  of  wealth, 
I  gaze  past  little  house-tops  poor  and  rusting, 
Where  honor  crawls  and  freedom  breathes  by 

stealth. 
To  those  brown  wooden  homes  my  thoughts 

'gan  fall, 

My  love  and  pity  passed ;  and  fancy  strayed 
Through  dark  defiles  of  streets,  which  ended 

small, 

And  there  the  ragged-running  rabble  played. 
Out  of  that  struggling  multifarious  throng, 
A  movement,  as  of  setting  forth,  began ; 
From    which    emerged    a    captain    huge    and 

strong, 
What  time  I  saw  he  was  a  humpbacked  man. 

15 


I  next  beheld  him  in  my  room.    His  tread 
Was  like  an  army's,  though  he  came  alone. 
With   woes   to   stoppage   fraught,   he   gazed 

ahead 

And,  victim  of  a  thousand  crimes,  did  groan. 
Lofty,  though  wronged  and  lulled  from  beau 
ty's  line, 

Despoilt  with  task  and  years,  on  him,  withal, 
Innumerable  beauties  did  still  twine, 
Like  roses  livening  a  ruined  wall. 
Rigid  with  strength,  solidified  with  grief, 
He  felt  no  amber  sun-beams  make  him  bright, 
But  saw,  with  the  magic  eyesight  of  belief, 
The  hand  of  wrong  betwixt  him  and  the  light. 

His  frown  was  apt  with  anger  to  chastise, 

Like  God's,  to  awe  the  ungodly  to  obey ; 

And  yet  the  kindlier  manner  of  his  eyes 

Was  like  a  twilight  turning  bluebells  gray. 

His  smile  was  like  a  hope  of  sweeter  woe, — 

A  vision  rising  from  a  lake  of  tears; 

For  tears  from  hopes  and  pent-up  visions  flow, 

And  his  had  flowed  in  spirit  through  the  years. 

Of  sentences  to  tie  into  a  tale, 

He  lacked  supply,  nor  gained  them  from  the 

gloom, 

And,  when  of  his  few  words  he  made  avail, 
His  voice  was  like  the  midnight  in  a  tomb. 


16 


He  showed  me  wrongs  and  schedules  of  com 
plaint, 

In  wide  expectance  of  my  soon  surprise; 

And  at  such  misery  as  he  could  paint, 

Asked  me  to  imitate  his  bardlike  sighs. 

But  I,  in  walls  with  gladder  pictures  brimming, 

Did  look  on  his  with  courtesy  at  most. 

Ill-framed  with  splendors,  frightless  was  his 
limning — 

The  noontime  telling  of  a  midnight  ghost. 

Then  he,  with  toppling-heavy  shoulders 
bowed, 

Withdrew  unsoothed  and  midst  his  people 
went, 

Obscurely  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 

Through  a  dark  forest.  Then  my  view  was 
bent. 

Then  came  a  rogue  who  entered  with  a  thud — 
A     crippled,     crack-legged,     crimson-browed 

alarm, 

A  night-hag's  dwarf,  inbred  with  Satan's  blood 
And  stamped  by  Hell's  astrology  for  harm. 
Softly!    He  is  all  memory  now.    But  I 
Remember  what  a  tragic  rage  he  had 
And  wrinkly  folds  of  shadow  that  did  ply 
His  face  and  seem,  each  one,  a  scowl  to  add. 
Hobblcr  upon  mismated  legs  he  came, 
Stopping  in  fault,  or  with  short-coming  hurry. 
Limped  hither  thither  like  a  shifting  flame 
And    cursed    and    perjured    with    exceeding 

worry. 


17 


From  a  short  reverie  and  scowl  aside, 
This   flame-and-smoke   hued   villain   then   re 
bounded  ; 
"Remorse  on  you!    Fall  down  and  weep,"  he 

cried, 

And,  being  raged,  a  throaty  tale  expounded. 
"Boilers  will  burst  in  wrath  and  vent  their 

ills; 

New  patriots  your  walls  from  walls  will  pluck, 
Unlock  the  axles  of  the  steaming  mills 
And  hurl  the  hot  vibrating  wheels  amuck. 
I  see  your  windows  bursted  spouting  flame 
And  you  in  cinders  blacker  than  ours  now — " 
Madman!     I  stopped  him  there  and,  with  ex 
claim, 
Seated  my  fist  compactly  on  his  brow. 

Binding  his  forehead  with  his  arms  he  quailed 
Out  of  my  eyes,  nor  back  his  dudgeon  darting, 
Avaunted  and  himself  with  tears  regaled 
And  sobs  to  keep  him  company  departing. 
And  then  I  saw  that  I  was  not  alone: 
The  third  who  now  against  me  did  contrive 
Was  clad  in  mouldy  black,  not  aye  his  own, 
And,  having  but  one  eye,  looked  half  alive. 
The  eye  survivor  seemed  in  fright  to  stare 
Still   at   the   violence   that   had    quashed   the 

other ; 

Or  else  accounted  all  the  world  unfair 
To  leer  upon  the  cave  left  by  its  brother. 


18 


Shiftless,  erelong  he  into  words  did  stray; 
Inhaled  the  simple  twilight  for  his  lung, 
Which    worked    (in    their    behalf   who   were 

away) 

The  leaky  loud  poetics  of  his  tongue. 
His  plural  and  most  voluble  debating 
Paused  often  and  amazed  to  pick  its  choice 
Of  words  and  repetitions  lost  and  waiting 
In  the  invisible  mazes  of  his  voice. 
He  said  that  we  are  foernen  to  defeat  them 
Whose  lives  we  press  and  purchase  hour  to 

hour ; 

And  swore  that  we  are  cannibals  and  eat  them 
Wrhose  strength  is  in  the  dainties  we  devour. 

"Tripe-fed  philosopher  and  gloomy  dunce!" 
To  him  I  quick  in  rising  soul  replied, 
"You  are  the  devils  cast  from  Heaven  once, 
Now  from  the  light  of  heavenly  wealth  denied. 
A  fool  tongue  curling,  'justice'  is  your  word : 
Not  you,  not  I,  but  God  knows  what  that  is, 
And  how  much  debt  the  crime  of  life  incurred, 
And  how  each  yearning  knave  may  reason  his. 
To  vanquish  Heaven  is  a  feat  for  Hell, 
That    Pleasure,    smiling,    frighten    at    Hell's 

frown ; 

Your  duty  is  to  envy  and  rebel; 
Mine  is  to  battle  your  rebellion  down. 


''Therefore,  should  I  be  gracious  to  your  will, 
Letting  your  fortunes  bask  where  mine  have 

flourished, 

And  with  my  art  your  artless  hopes  fulfill, 
Your   wants   would   grow   in   purpose,   being 

nourished; 
Yet    would,    as    grew    their    project,    lose    in 

power, 
For,    being    wronged,    the    courage    gains    in 

force ; 
But   favors,    man,   would    steal    your   anger's 

flower, 

Leaving  you  poor  in  motive  and  resource. 
Then  should  I   grant  the  simple  things  you 

ask, 

T  would  be  shrewdly  stealing  all  you  own: 
The  conquest  of  its  own  is  honor's  task; 
Without  which  task,  how  would  its  work  be 

known  ?" 

Then  he,  naught  saying  or  attempting,  turned, 
Slinking  off  like  a  lean  cat  in  the  rain. 
But  scarce  outside  his  transit  I  discerned, 
Another  carne  to  give  my  fancies  pain. 
O  mortal  horror!    Not  until  Hell's  doom, 
When  the  last  shivering  consumptive  imp 
Will  slam  the  black  and  icy  gates  of  gloom 
And  fall  convulsed  with  many  a  woeful  crimp 
Will  there  again  such  mangled  monster  crawl 
Out  of  the  glimmering  pits  (as  if  surviving 
Satan  and  all  his  tortures)  as  did  fall 
Into  my  sight — a  shape  that  howled  arriving. 


20 


Of  the  deformities  of  them  before 

He  was  the  ghastly,  physical  conjunction; 

Shaped    by   his   wounds    and   showing   many 

more 

To  try  my  fear  or  delicate  compunction, 
Threefoldly    damaged,    wrenched    from    noble 

height, 
With  blood-stains  in  his  beard  and  hair  that 

ran 

Into  mad  masses,  he  was  all,  outright, 
Humpbacked    and    crippled    and    a    one-eyed 

man. 
Like    the    first    huge    up-shouldered    one    he 

loomed, 

And  like  the  angry  cripple  dragged  a  limb, 
And    like    the    one-eyed    man's    his    one    eye 

bloomed, 
And  as  a  gory  giant  he  was  grim. 

He  spoke :    "I  am  that  one  you  firstly  scanned. 
I  am  the  man  of  many  woes  and  wrongs. 
I  know  the  backs  that  suffer  and  withstand. 
I  know  the  hearts  to  which  your  blood  be 
longs. 

No  longer  I  am  anvil  to  your  pride : 
I  walk,  though  lamed  by  Jealousy  and  Fear; 
For   when    my   comrades   took   me   for   their 

guide, 

The  jealous  rivals  of  my  wrath  stabbed  here. 
Then  I  the  wisdom  of  our  wants  became, 
And  he  who  was  half-sighted  was  put  by, 
Shrieking  as  he  struck  here  with  hideous  aim, 
"Let  our  great  leader  be  one-eyed,  as  I.' 

21 


"Thus  I  am  fit  memorial  of  the  strife ; 
My  body  is  become  a  bloody  flag. 
Adorned  with  the  atrocities  of  life, 
I  am  the  fury  of  the  hut  and  rag. 
Humpbacked  I  am  from  shouldering  golden 

wrongs ; 

Lame — all  my  deeds  by  jealousy  are  crippled ; 
One-eyed  in  the  half-wisdom  of  my  throngs,, 
But  in  resolve  all  their  terrifies  tripled. 
I  threaten  you,  Revenge  has  yet  in  keep 
Memory  of  inextinguishable  stuff, 
And  retribution  can  through  armies  leap 
Till  overcrowded  Hell  must  cry  'Enough!' 

"Your  crimes,  though  weak,  have  bent  me  into 

strength, 

That  I  may  clasp  your  struggles  in  my  hand. 
Though  bowed,  I  crush ;  though  lame,  limp  to 

great  length ; 

One-eyed, — my  deeds  I  need  not  understand. 
Tremble  and  move  as  timber  struck  by  steel. 
Howl  with  repentance  through  your  vacant 

fame. 

Depart  on  limbs  that  soon  may  learn  to  kneel ; 
And,  fallen  in  escaping,  bleed  with  shame!'' 
He  said  no  more;  but  his  dark  arm  rose  high. 
And  he  is  here.     His   shoulders  heave  with 

woe. 

And  he  is  thinking  and  he  has  one  eye ; 
Monster,  with  wrongs  and  wrath,  he  will  not 

go- 


22 


THH  SOVEREIGN  IN  THE  STREET 

From  a  castle  of  thoughts  that  my  conscience 

was  building 

I  studied  a  man  who  was  cutting  a  street, 
While  the  round-rolling  sun  was  demeaning 

and  gilding 

Him  thinking  and  ripping  the  ditch  at  his 
feet. 

Of  this  native  of  grief,  as  he  shoveled  the  fur 
row, 

I  write,  be  the  subject  a  poem  or  not; 
For  as  deep  did  he  burrow,  my  love  traveled 

thorough 

And  writes,  be  the  truth  of  it  rubies  or 
rot. 

Oh,  'tis  weird  that  the  truth,  like  a  corpse  on 

the  floor, 
Should  bleed  on  our  carpets  and  stare  at 

the  light; 
And  that  Art  should  ignore  what  she  taught 

us  before, 

And  tear  up  the  lessons  we  prattled  last 
night. 


Not  with   your   eyes,   my  poet,  rose-haunted 

and  grave — 

Thou  poet  with  wondering  violet  eyes — 
Did  I  look  on  the  slave  digging  low  in  the 

cave, 

Corroded    with    dust,    sweat,    itch,    sun 
beams  and  flies. 

O  dim-blushing  poet  with  Grecian-strung  lyre, 
Declare   not    my    earth-man    in    melody 

wrong, 

Nor  that   Beauty's   attire   and   effulgence   in 
spire  : 

'Tis  the  voice  of  the  singer  makes  noble 
the  song. 

Like  a  grave-digger  digging  a  terrible  grave — 
Like  a  sun  spirit  heaving  the  hot  day  with 

coal, 

His  dredger  he  drave  and  he  hove  to  the  pave 
The  clods  that  he  tore  from  the  earth  and 
flung  whole. 

The  freight  of  his  spade,  coming  dun  from  the 

bung 
Of  the    foul-smelling    sand,    seemed    the 

filth  of  his  fate. 

And  fast  while  he  flung  the  material  dung 
Of  the  earth  he  built  sidelong  the  mound 
of  his  hate. 


The  wealth-wasting  givers  of  feasts  grew  in 

riches ; 
Wide,  wide  grew  the  hands  at  the  hilt  of 

the  task; 
And  there  came  a  dream  which  is  a  curse  on 

all  ditches 

And  pain  guised  the  laborer's  face  like  a 
mask. 

The   point   of   the    shovel   grew    inward    and 

blunt 
And  the  love  in  the  eye  of  the  trencher 

grew  dim ; 
As  he  dug  with  a  grunt,  became  shorter  in 

front, 

And    his    fingers    grew    crooked,    knock- 
knuckled  and  grim. 

Still    at    underground    honor    his    scepter    he 

points, 

With  negligence  digging  a  tragical  story; 
While    some    dunce    who    anoints    with    fat 

wealth  his  vile  joints, 
Stands  proud  on  the  swift-rolling  chariots 
of  glory. 

O  for  a  lithe  shovel  of  truculent  aim 

To  gouge  at  the  greed  that  keeps  need  in 

the  sands! 
For  the  spade  of  good  fame  is  of  wood  and 

steel  frame, 

But  to  masters  of  men  it  is  wood,  steel 
and  hands. 

25 


Then  dig,  ye  bones,  dig;  ye  have  many  more 

years ; 
Your  sorrows  will  shine  to  the  eyelids  of 

God; 

And  Destiny  hears  your  soft-falling  tears: 
O'er  the  task  of  the  spade  let  your  man's 
noddle  nod. 

What  matters  it,  marrow  and  gristle  and  brain 
Or  tendon  and  belly  and  tooth  are  intent? 

Or  that  eyeball  and  vein  in  a  perishing  strain 
To  the  rim  of  the  earth-riving  shovel  are 
bent? 

Empowered  of  shoulder  and  elbow  and  groin, 
In  struggle  terrific  he  wearies  at  length, 

While  innard  and  loin  to  the  hot  shovel  join, 
Converting  his  pride  to  the  need  of  new 
strength. 

What  long-contained  smiles  have  been  stop 
ped  at  those  lips? 

What  thoughts  dead  and  useless  are  ooz 
ing  in  sweat? 
What  majesty   drips  on  those  foul-flanneled 

hips? 
How  laboring  low  makes  nobility  wet! 


26 


What  tears  that  his  eyelids  a  passage  denied 
Took  a  brinier  course  through  the  fast- 
weeping  pores? 
What  thoughts  were  untied — what  escapings 

of  pride 

When  first  he  dug  sands  for  their  silver- 
less  ores? 

I  could  shout  to  the  sun  (whose  hot  splendors 

are  falling 

And  burning  this  handler  of  shovels)  be 
hold! 
What   devils   are   calling  and   gambling   and 

brawling 

For  them  who  with  fingers  of  gold  count 
their  gold. 

But  it  boots  not  relating  what  devils,  alack, 
With  smutty  red  limbs  and  blue  bellies 

are  waiting 

To  harrow  a  pack  of  scared  souls  on  the  rack; 
That's  a  matter  of  prayers  and  religious 
debating. 

But  the  pendulum  swaying  through  seasons 

to  bring 

The  scenic  effusion  of  May,  we  remem 
ber — 

From  flowery  Spring  will  as  quietly  swing 
Back,  back  in  its  path  to  the  wilds  of  No 
vember. 


27 


So  the  beam  in  Time's  balance  will  pass  in  its 

frame 
And  the  places  of  wealth  become  blighted 

and  cold; 
For  its  gold  and  its  fame  from  weary  blood 

came, 

And  Time  will  refund  it  with  blood  from 
the  gold. 


SONNETS  OF  AN  ANGEL 

God's    ancient    deeds    within     my    thoughts 

abide ; 

I  can  remember  Eden  palm  and  glen. 
Far  rolled  the  word  when  chaos  did  subside, 
And  there  was   sunlight  when   I   looked 

again. 

Jehovah  smiled :  the  garden  livened  then ; 
His  words  to  beastly  shapes  transformed  ran 

wide 

Or  blossomed  in  the  paths  of  future  men 
Or   spoke    to    heaven,    which    with    stars    re 
plied. 

Fair  shone  the  days;  and,  plentily  bedewed. 
The     boughs     of     Eden     kept     primeval 

Spring. 
At  Adam's  flank  Eve  walked  those  weathers 

nude, 

In  the  respect  of  every  living  thing. 
Ate  she  for  man  the  apple  of  disgrace, 
And  faltered,  pregnant  with  the  human  race. 


29 


There  was  a  stillness  in  the  dark  blue  night, 
Whose  musk  from  viewless  jars'  abroad 

was  blown, 
Making  that   balmy   which    the    moon    made 

bright, 
Deep  in  the  wells  of  space  where  Eden 

shone. 
Night's     heaven     suddenly     was     wider 

grown, 
Showing  a  field  of  limpid  sapphire  light, 

Which,  like  the  rays  from  Heaven's  glow 
ing  throne, 
Burned    the    surrounding   orbs    from    earthly 

sight. 
God    walked    among    the    stars    in    tranquil 

wrath ; 

The  distances  of  heaven  rolled  away; 
Cerulean  leagues  receded  from  his  path, 

Where,  in  the  night,  his  thoughts  made 

purple  day. 
Then  spoke  the  Lord  to  one  of  men:    "Work 

thou 
Until  thy  master's  deeds  weigh  on  thy  brow." 


Man  worked.    The  futures  thawed  before  his 

face. 
He  searched  the  seas  and  ploughed  the 

plains  between ; 
Prayed  to  his  God,  kneeled  under  Heaven's 

grace, 

And  hung  his  rotting  tombs  with   ever 
green. 

The  toiler  treaded  gloomily  the  scene, 
Remembering  the  God  of  years  and  space 

(Though  time  and  horizons  did  intervene) 
Through  the  remembering  souls  of  all  his  race. 
Sometimes,  brow-sick  where  steadfast  shades 

accrue, 
He  thought  he  witnessed  God's  traditional 

form, 
Brushing  the   mist  of  years   from   memory's 

view, 
Voicing  melodious  thunders  through  the 

storm. 
Then  from  his  breast  the  toiler's  voice  came 

free: 

"Father,  behold  what  has  been  wrought  with 
me!" 


Thou  too,  proud  Hell,  behold  this  world  of 

men! 

O  that  I  could,  to  set  my  censure  high, 
In  some  volcano's  molten  dip  my  pen 

And  write  their  shame  athwart  the  plain 

blue  sky. 

Ye  lilies  of  your  sex,  with  pathos  dry, 
Your  cheeks  will  dim  beneath  Time's  dismal 

ken, 
Your   mild   sweets   curdle   'neath   Time's 

bitter  eye, 

But  kindly  acts  will  make  you  live  again. 
Ye  lovers  of  the  lily-aspect  maids, 

Ye  mouldering  hearts  of  earth's  original 

dust, 

For  that -ye  hate  the  dwellers  in  the  shades, — 
Look  up  and  the  breath  of  divine  disgust 
Be  on  you  all  until  your  given  breads 
Regain  His  love  to  your  unloving  heads. 


When  to  the  witness  of  your  varied  crimes, 
There   comes   the   anguish   of   despairing 

thought, 

To  make  the  poet  throw  away  his  rhymes, 
The  drinker  dash  the  glass  with  nectars 

fraught, — 
When  in  wrath's  blazes  patience  burns  to 

naught, 

Seeing  your  contracts  broken  many  times, 
The  soul  beweeps  the  stuff  of  which  'tis 

wrought, 

And  anger  high  in  honor's  tower  climbs. 
Because  ye  sell  the  roses  of  the  earth 

For  coins  to  them  who  watched  the  bush 

bloom  wild; 
And  that  ye  buy  more  than  your  needs  are 

worth, 

And  sell  the  useless  to  the  hungry  child; 
Boldly  abuse  the  workers  where  they  plod, 
And  in  your  wealth  pray  to  the  workman's 
God. 


33 


THE  WORKWOMAN'S  GOD 

Though  wit  and  logic  disbelieve 

And  gospels  bend 

While  creeds  contend, 
There  breathes  above  the  nurtured  sod 

A  greater  God 
Than  faith  and  folly  now  perceive. 

Though  pagan  dance  and  Christian  sing- 
Though  folk  and  priest 
And  skeptic  feast 

And  angels  of  the  choir  give  praise 
On  holy  days, 

A  planted  seed  will  conjure  Spring. 

Though  Bible  be  the  godly  word, 

Or  be  it  not, 

When  'tis  forgot, 
A  greater  God  than  Moses  knew 

Will  speak  to  you 
And  tell  you  where  His  prophets  erred. 


34 


\e  chanters  of  the  sweetened  prayer, 

Ye  hearts  that  reign, 

Do  not  disdain 
The  guider  of  the  wheel  and  rod; 

The  workman's  God 
Answers  the  kneeling  millionaire. 

Think,  as  with  myrrh  you  warm  the  prayer 

And  blow  avast 

The  golden  blast, 
The  cost  of  odor  and  of  gold 

Will  be  enscrolled 
Against  the  charity  ye  bear. 

While  the  cathedral  aisles  are  warm, 

And  every  night 

The  heavens  fright 
The  tenants  of  Jehovah's  rain, 

Your  prayers  attain 
The  God  of  them  within  the  storm. 


35 


The  Lord  beholds  you  on  your  knees; 

He  takes  your  praise 

And  sees  your  ways 
And  knows  the  music  of  the  song 

To  which  belong 
The  singers'  virtue,  which  he  sees. 

The  churchless  and  unsapphired  God, 
Though  pleased  with  hymns 
And  creedish  whims, 

Bends  out  of  Heaven's  richest  air 
To  hear  the  prayer 

The  ploughboy  whispers  to  the  sod. 

As,  thick  with  lust  or  pale  with  hate, 

Ye  tempt  the  skies 

With  earthly  prize 
And  bring  to  God  some  stolen  gold, 

And  some  withhold, 
The  workman  prays  to  One  as  great. 

As  loud  ye  beat  at  Heaven's  wall, 

For  place  when  Death 

Will  have  your  breath, 
Believe  that  somewhere  on  the  slopes, 

The  God  of  hopes 
Will  build  sweet  poverty  a  hall. 


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TURQUOISE    rfMD    IRON 
By  Lionel  Josaphare 

Despite  that  Lionel  Josaphare's  work  has  been  sub- 
jec  ted  to  the  fierce  light  of  adverse  criticism,  it  would 
be  manifestly  unjust  and,  worse  still,  extremely  stupid, 
to  deny  him  the  possession  of  talent.  Talent  he  un 
doubtedly  has,  and  there  are  gleams  of  a  great  genius 
in  much  of  his  writing. —  JOHN  HAMILTON  GII«MOUR  in 
5.  F.  Evening  Post. 

With  "Turquoise  and  Iron,"  which  contains  pre 
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The  originality  is  confirmed;  the  strength  is  undeni 
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